Night Comes Gently
by Mariole
Summary: After Frodo's visit, Tom Bombadil claims the One Ring.


_'And now he is withdrawn into a little land, within bounds that he has set, though none can see them… But within those bounds nothing seems to dismay him.' _

—_"The Council of Elrond", Fellowship of the Ring _

-o-o-o-

"I think," said Strider, "that we had best make for Weathertop. It commands a wide view all round. Then we shall see what we shall see."

"I hope we see Gandalf," Frodo said querulously. "It is not like him to be so late. "

"We may see many things," said Strider, "not least of which might be servants of the enemy. Yet it is strange. We are five days from Bree, and I can detect no sign of the enemy or his spies. Considering how closely you were pursued before, I cannot think why none of them has chosen to search in this direction. Yet there is no feeling of their presence anywhere at hand."

"Well, sir, I'd put that down to your skill," Sam volunteered. "I'll admit I had my doubts, when you first popped up in Bree. I thought none too kindly of you keeping us from joining the company that evening, when it sounded so cheerful and we'd been through such a trial and all. But I have to say, you were proved right in the end. Hardly a soul knew we were in town, which was just as well. There were those bad folk what made off with all the ponies in old Mr. Butterbur's stable. Who knows what other mischief they might have got up to if we'd showed ourselves?"

Merry said, "I would find it strange if the theft of the ponies was a mere coincidence, Sam."

"It has certainly proved to be an inconvenience!" cried Pippin. "I think all of us have done more walking on this journey than we had imagined in our wildest dreams!"

"But I'd rather walk than have to run from Black Riders, which is my point," said Sam. "I think we owe Mr. Strider a lot. All that doubling back we did on the first day must have done the trick, and put the enemy off our track."

"Perhaps," said Strider, frowning.

Frodo was too ill-humored to join in the conversation, and impatient with their progress. They were still two weeks away from Elrond's house, and he felt weary beyond belief. Perhaps it was as Pippin said, and he was simply unused to such prolonged physical activity. Yet he felt restless and irritable; that didn't seem a product of mere fatigue.

Once again his hand stole towards the pocket where he kept the Ring. He had never felt right about it, ever since Tom Bombadil had done his disappearing trick with it. True, the Ring he carried now appeared to be genuine. It certainly _seemed_ as if Merry couldn't see him when he had tried it on after Tom returned it. But… if Tom could make a ring disappear, would he be able to do the same to a person? Perhaps it wasn't the Ring that had made Frodo invisible that night but Tom, playing a trick on Frodo by making _him_ invisible to his friends. Tom had many unusual powers.

Frodo remembered Bombadil's potent songs against Old Man Willow and the Barrow-wight. _'Old grey Willow-man! I'll freeze his marrow cold, if he don't behave himself. I'll sing his roots off. I'll sing a wind up and blow leaf and branch away.' _Tom's powers perhaps exceeded even Gandalf's. Of course, Gandalf could talk sharply as well. But the wizard had vehemently refused to take the Ring, when Frodo had offered it to him so many months ago. And Gandalf had been unwilling even to handle the Ring, or discuss it except by daylight—whereas Tom had shown no such reluctance.

It now struck Frodo how oddly he had behaved that night in Tom's house. All Tom had said was, "Show me the precious Ring!" and Frodo without a thought had taken the Ring off its chain and handed it to him. He had not even given it to Gandalf so easily, that morning the wizard had conducted his test for the fiery letters in Bag End. Yet Tom had merely to make the request, and Frodo obeyed this virtual stranger without hesitation.

Even after the exchange, and Tom had supposedly returned the Ring, his host's words haunted him. Frodo recollected them up clearly, along with the image of Tom's too-sharp eyes, shining with interest. _"Take off your golden ring! Your hand's more fair without it."_

What if… what if this was _not_ Frodo's ring? What if the old conjuror had decided to take matters into his own hands, literally. Perhaps he had decided that another hand besides Frodo's would look fairer with the Ring. His own, perhaps.

Today, the temptation was too much to resist. Frodo's hand crept towards the ring in his pocket, the ring that felt increasingly suspect with every mile that Frodo traveled. Under the cover of the cloth, he took it into his hand. How easy it would be, to slip the ring onto his finger…

"Do not."

Frodo started. Strider was eying him severely. "Do not put it on, Frodo. Even for an instant. Such an act would call the servants of the enemy to us. They would not need your summons to feel the pull of the Ring. It is ingrained in their very being. They would track us as a hound on a blood trail."

Frodo looked round to see his friends looking amazed. Shamefaced, he withdrew his hand. Strider favored him with a hard look, then turned to lead them on.

Sam plodded after him, head down, apparently embarrassed on Frodo's behalf. But Merry sidled near.

"What did you think you were doing?" he whispered, at a moment when it seemed the others would not overhear.

"I just… lately I've had the growing feeling that the Ring isn't genuine," he murmured back. "Absurd, isn't it?"

Merry looked thoughtful. "Perhaps the Enemy is trying to trick you into putting it on, so his servants can find us."

"How would he manage _that_?"

Merry shrugged. "I don't know. You told me earlier that the Ring liked to slip out of people's pockets. It seems to me a most cunning artifact. Perhaps we'd best do as Strider suggests. I'm certain there are folk in Elrond's house who will be able to verify its authenticity."

"Undoubtedly."

The party marched on. But Frodo's doubts never left him. Rather, they seemed to loom ever larger, like the threatening bulge of Weathertop growing on the horizon.

-o-o-o-

'_Tom is no master of Riders from the Black Land far beyond his borders.'_

—_"Fog on the Barrow-Downs", Fellowship of the Ring _

Tom was on the point of going out when a clear voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Tom!"

Tom's heart quickened as it always did when he beheld the object of his passion, his life's only desire. Goldberry, fair River-daughter, stepped into the room with a sly look on her face. She held out her hand; from her palm came a golden gleam. She smiled indulgently. "You left it in the washbasin again."

"_A-merrio, derrio, a-dinga-ding-ding! I can't keep track of the pretty little thing_." He took the golden band, and slipped it into his pocket. Skipping about, he pressed a tender kiss on his beloved's lips. Goldberry never failed to make his heart sing.

"Mind you don't leave it along the riverbank again," Goldberry called, as Tom at length danced out the door. "Some sort of winged creature was flying over the Barrow-downs again. I suspect such a creature is very far-sighted."

"Do not fear, pretty lady! Heed no flying creatures! Tom's songs are the stronger songs, and of this land he's Master."

He hopped down the front lawn to the stone-lined path along the River. The Sun shone brightly in the new day, making every veined leaf glow, and sending reflective shimmers from the river's molten surface to ripple along the lush foliage. Tom bounded along the path, taking his favorite route towards the water lilies that Goldberry loved. Since he'd acquired the Ring, the lilies had bloomed splendidly. Never had there been such bounty to lay at Goldberry's feet as there had been these last few months. Tom sang with his joy.

The Withywindle lay in a valley, and the trees rose up on all sides. Normally Tom never looked beyond the bounds of his land. Why should he? All he desired was here: the green leaves, the young grasses, the fragrant flowers for his lady's girdle. He had honeycomb and berries, and milk from a few gentle cows. What more could he want?

Yet today, when he glanced back towards the house, perched on its grassy knoll, the sky beyond it looked grey. Tom halted. Such a thing could not be allowed, to have distant smokes cloud such a beautiful morning. He took himself off the familiar path, and skipped up to the hilltop, whence Goldberry had bidden farewell to their small guests nearly two years ago. That had been only weeks before Tom had been forced to close his borders for good. He regretted doing it, but he simply could not have all these people coming onto his land, bothering him about that golden bauble. Elves or no, it was best they stayed away, and minded their own concerns. Tom always knew what was best to do, inside his own land.

From the hill's vantage point, he looked round. The Old Forest lay to the immediate west, hazy and tangled as ever. Old Man Willow he had been forced to obliterate last year, when Tom found he could no longer tolerate that grim spirit's influence over so many trees of the forest. There was only one Master here, and Tom was it! So his long-time rival was vanquished, his wood split open and left to rot; Tom's songs had always been stronger. Yet evil remained, running like a network of roots beneath the soil. The source of that root lay elsewhere, beyond where Tom could sing it away. So evil persisted, mutely, in the forest, but it was not pressing. Here in his valley, Tom was secure.

To the South and East, the view was more bleak. Once, Tom could see the Baranduin sparkling all the way to the horizon. But darkness had encroached over the past year. Now, the River disappeared behind a grey cloud as soon as it left the southern border of the Old Forest. In the lands beyond—indeed, in every direction—mists curled up like snakes in slow coils. The good grass was withered, and upon the brown surface of the land crawled numerous creatures. Not Men or hobbits; these were squat and bandy-legged, with long arms and bowed heads. They had only appeared in force early in the year, following the Greenway past his land to attack the settlements at Bree. For a while there had been intense fighting, as the remnant of the Free Peoples of the North made their stand there. Futilely, as the kings of old had done long ago, and nothing now remained of them but smooth mounds in the Barrow-downs. But for many months now, the lands to the north had been quiet.

As were the lands farther west. That Spring, what Tom could see of the Shire had been gobbled up in a matter of days. For weeks smokes had risen from the former sites of towns, and the setting Sun had gleamed dully through the haze. Now, there was nothing left to burn. Tom shook his head. Such a waste, but that was how the world went. Once this forest had stretched from sea to sea. Now all that was left was this tiny remnant under Tom's dominion. It was unsettling how small the world had become—but Tom couldn't worry about that. Who could worry about the whole world?

What concerned Tom most was the Barrow-downs. These were part of his domain, within his unseen borders. The Sun burned strongly upon Tom, standing atop his hill. But northward, the sunlight was bleared. The rolling Downs looked grey rather than green. This was his land; he could not permit the sunlight to be obscured here, not where Goldberry would see it.

Tom lifted his gaze. A brown cloud seemed to press against the air above the Downs, as if held back by an invisible bowl. Within the cloud, vast winged shapes circled. These were the creatures that had troubled his fair River-daughter's thoughts that morning. Their flesh appeared naked, their outspread fingers webbed. Foul brutes with sharp beaks and dark-shrouded riders. The croaks and mournful cries of the beasts, and the screeches of the riders, drifted to him faintly upon the wind.

Tom set his jaw. He was the Master here. He had always been Master! Tom lifted his hands. Skipping a little, he sang:

_Off with you mists, away your fell cries_

_Tom's song will clear the fog-troubled skies_

_Riders and fell mounts, hasten away!_

_Nighttime is flown. Tom welcomes the Day!_

The winged beasts gave a resentful cry, and veered towards the north. They did not venture far, however; merely to the Bree road. But farther than that, Tom could not drive them. He was not Master of the land upon the road.

But within his realm, all was well. The mists rolled back from the Downs, and the sunlight strengthened. Soon all was warm and merry, merry as it had ever been. If his Goldberry came to the hill at any time this day, she would see the land the way she was pleased to see it. That was all Tom cared about.

He turned his back on the broader view, and skipped down the path. Soon, he was singing lustily. There were water lilies to gather, and Goldberry was waiting.

-o-o-o-

'_I think that in the end, if all else is conquered, Bombadil will fall, Last as he was First; and then night will come.'_

—_"The Council of Elrond", Fellowship of the Ring _


End file.
